


Lovely Lady

by Frumpologist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pretty Woman Fusion, Auror Harry Potter, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff and Angst, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Mild Scene of Sexual Aggression, Mild Scene of Sexual Assault, Paris (City), Pretty Woman AU, Prostitute Hermione Granger, Sexual Content, hidden identity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-03
Updated: 2019-09-03
Packaged: 2020-10-04 22:00:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 21,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20478143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frumpologist/pseuds/Frumpologist
Summary: After the war, with no parents, no money, and a broken spirit, Hermione Granger fled to Paris with no more than her wand and a rucksack. With a Notice-Me-Not charm firmly in place, she finds friendship with another war refugee, Lavender Brown, as a professional escort on the streets of Paris. Several years pass and Hermione is faced with old comrades from the past — Harry Potter arrives in Paris on an official Ministry trip.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [HarmonyAtTheMovies](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/HarmonyAtTheMovies) collection. 

> **Prompt:** Pretty Woman (1990)
> 
> This story was written for the Harmony & Co. Harmony At The Movies:A Film Fest. Our task was to choose a movie and adapt a Harmony story from it. I did not follow all of the Pretty Woman plot; this is very much a Potterverse Fusion into the Pretty Woman plot. There is a scene in Pretty Woman that depicts mild sexual aggression/assault and that scene was adapted into this story. It is not a graphic, violent, nor long scene -- but it _does_ exist. Readers, I implore you, be cautious of your triggers when reading this fic.
> 
> My endless love and gratitude to **mcal** for her wonderful words of encouragement and support and help with this story. Without which, this would not exist. I adore you and am so glad to call you friend. <3
> 
> This story is unbeta'd at the time of posting. All errors are my own.
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or its familiar elements, nor do I own Pretty Woman or its familiar elements. No profit is being made from this work.

“Lavender!” Hermione weaves through the crowd of people walking down the pavement. She reaches a hand out and curls it around Lavender’s bare elbow. “Lav! Are you seriously telling me that you spent all of our money?”

Lavender’s thick waves of hair whip around her face. A stunning, toothy grin meet Hermione and it does nothing to put her nerves to rest. She’s done this before, she has no concept of money or what it means for them if all their cash is blown on the wrong things.

“Calm down, Hermione.” Lavender pulls them aside and out of the way of the busy Parisian crowds bustling along the path. “Merlin, we can make that money back in three nights. It’s no big deal.” 

“No big deal? No big deal, she says!” Hermione tugs herself out of Lavender’s grip and narrows her eyes as she plants her fists firmly on her bare hips. “We can’t keep spending our savings, Lav! We’ll never get out of here.” 

"Look, Hermione.” Lavender’s gaze swings right and left down the pavement and then lands back on her glare. “It was only a little bit, and we’re going to have a great time before work tonight, alright? Just — take a calming draught and enjoy the night. We have champagne!” 

“No,” Hermione hisses. This is exactly what they don’t need — more champagne, more small things that keep them tied to the street like addiction. She’s watched too many of their friends suffer here and she’s determined to make things better for them. “No more champagne, no more potions. Lavender, we want the business to thrive and that won’t happen if you’re drunk or high all the time.” 

“We’ll make the money back! Godric, Hermione, you’re such a buzzkill.” Lavender sways on the spot and grabs a corked potion from her pocket. She touches just the smallest amount to the tip of her tongue and breathes through her nose as the effects take over. “It’s the biggest weekend of the quarter. The Ministry Summit will have desperate blokes up and down this street seeking companionship. We’ll make the money back, plus some.”

There’s no arguing with Lavender when she’s like this. She doesn’t understand the value of a galleon and Hermione can’t make her understand what saving the galleons will do for them in the future. Their business is a lucrative one; they’re doing well and they’re happy — if you don’t count the bad moments or Lavender’s growing dependence on potions. Hermione grabs her again with tight fingers and pulls her onto the edge of the pathway of a quieter section of the street.

“See, look!” Lavender yanks her arm away and gestures to a tall, dark, and handsome man in a tailored suit. “Ministry. Bulgarian by the looks of him — dibs!” 

“Lavender, you can’t just—”

“Oi! Handsome and broody, yeah, you!” She waves at the gentleman, who offers her a kind, sparkling smile but doesn’t steer from his path down the street. “Ugh, he’s probably married or, you know… wrong tree.” 

Hermione rolls her eyes. Perhaps, and it is just a guess, the bloke saw Lavender in the shorts that kiss her arse and halter top that bares far too much cleavage. With the growing crowd of fancy dressed officials, she has to assume that none of them want to be seen with their company. Not out in the open, at least.

“Let’s go around the corner, see if we can lure them into the shadows.” Hermione tugs on Lavender and she follows. “There’s an apparition point right over here. It’s where the hire cars are. No one else has claimed this place yet.” 

“You’re a genius!” Lavender adjusts her halter to show a little more skin and applies another smudge of sparkling pink on her lips. “You know, if we joined a service, we could make even more money. There are standards they offer that we can’t.” 

“I’m not working for a—” Hermione takes a deep breath. “Pimp. That’s what all this is for now, right? We should own the service, Lavender. We shouldn’t let someone take a percent of what we make. We’re better than that.” 

“I’m just saying, they offer a certain amount of protection. Your spellwork is shotty since your wand broke and I would feel safer if—”

“My spellwork is just fine, thanks.” Hermione checks her pocket for her wand. It’s the most important thing she owns now. Blokes tend to get a little rough, so she keeps herself protected the only way she knows how. “Look, let’s just talk about this tomorrow when you’re sober, yeah? I’ll charge double tonight.” 

“Well, if you’re going to charge double…” Lavender pulls Hermione’s hair down from its messy, wrapped bun, and fluffs out the wild curls. “Take off the jumper— it’s July, how are you wearing a jumper? —and here.” 

Lavender swishes her wand. Hermione’s jumper disappears, the long, tight jeans transform into a short, black skirt, and her stomach-baring shirt tightens around her breasts and splits up the sides. 

“There.” Lavender gives a perfunctory nod of her head. “Now you’re worth double.” 

The words hit Hermione hard. Worth. Tied to how appealing she is to a man who will pay her for an evening. She swallows and shoves down the thought just as she’s done for the past several years, and adjusts her bra so that it shoves her breasts to the edge of the tight shirt. 

“Alright. Look — that car. He’s got money.” Hermione tilts her chin toward a shiny, silver car that’s pulling along the edge of their night’s territory. “Dibs.”

Lavender pushes her forward with a cheeky smile and tinkling laugh. “Go get ‘em, Cinderella.”

The darkened windows of the car start to roll down as Hermione makes her way to the car. She sashays toward it, tall heels clicking on the cement as she approaches. She ducks down and nearly falls over into the street. A mass of chaotic raven hair falls over shocking, bright green eyes. Eyes she’d know anywhere. 

_ Harry _ .

His hand grips the gear stick as he leans over toward the window she peers in. Her heart slams in her throat. It’s been years since she’s seen those eyes in the flesh. Years, and it still feels like yesterday that she’d fled without saying goodbye. For a moment, she’s worried that he’ll recognize her, but his eyes flick over her face and he gives her a brief, pained smile as if he’s never seen her before in his life. 

The glamour works. She’s never been so relieved or so devastated in her entire life. She’s blonde now, with higher cheekbones, and fuller lips. It’s a small charm, but it’s already saved her so much heartache as she hid herself away from her friends. They haven’t found her, not until now, and Harry has no idea. She clears her throat and adopts a false Parisian accent, something she’s cultivated over the years.

“Bonsoir, monsieur.” She forces a big smile onto her face and wraps her hand over the space where the window had disappeared. “You seem lost. Need directions?”

He snorts a laugh. “I can’t seem to find my hotel, to be honest. I don’t suppose you’re able to give me directions?”

“A hundred Euro and I’ll take you there myself.” Her sultry voice belies the tremors she feels rushing through every vessel of her body.

“One hundred—” Harry shakes his head. “Are you having a laugh?”

Hermione shrugs and pretends to start walking away. “Have fun on the streets of Paris, monsieur. Watch out for the hags.”

“Wait!”

She’s going to wait anyway, but makes it appear as if he’s made her change her mind. She doesn’t turn around, just stands with his back to the car. Lavender’s eyes are round as saucers as she stares at Hermione. She mouths ‘Harry Potter!’ to her and Hermione sucks her lips between her teeth to try and gain control over her emotions. She gestures for Lavender to leave, but the girl is firmly rooted to the spot as she watches Hermione turns around slowly and approach Harry’s car again.

Hermione lifts an eyebrow without saying a word.

“Alright, one hundred Euro. Just… get in and roll up the window.” 

His eyes fall to her chest and the scant bit of fabric covering her legs. She does what he asks and quickly buckles herself in. Her ears are positively slamming with the beat of her heart. Her hands feel clammy. Harry, of all people, in Paris and accepting help from an escort.

The world is truly a bizarre place.

“So…” He sticks the car into gear and pulls away slowly from the curb. Hermione’s eyes watch Lavender as she disappears in the distance. “What’s your name, love?”

Her lips adopt a small smirk. “What do you want it to be?”

He isn’t amused and raises a thick eyebrow in her direction. She points for him to take the next right and he does. “I don’t want a fake name. I’d rather know the real you.”

A sharp breath leaves her and she turns to Harry, half expecting him to call her a liar when she says, “Jean.”

“Well, Jean. I’m Harry—”

She laughs. “Everyone knows who you are, Harry Potter —The Boy Who Lived.” He seems to bristle at the words, just as she expects. He’s always hated his fame, and she’s always loved that about him. “What are you doing in Paris, Harry?”

“Ministry Summit. It’s the first time since the war that we’ve all come together. The British Minister, Kingsley Shacklebolt, sent me in his place.” 

It surprises her. She’s never known Harry to be a very political person. In fact, he always seemed too volatile for such a position. She’s mildly impressed and it must show on her face, because he releases a small chuckle.

“Yeah, that was the reaction of most people who know me, as well.” He shoves the car into the next gear and it jerks the car. “Sorry —not used to the manual transmissions. How much do you make a night, doing what you do?”

“A hundred Euro,” she tells him quietly, still angry with Lavender for splurging all their savings on fine champagne and potions.

“That’s…” Harry searches for something to say and comes up short. She watches as his face falls and then she has a little laugh.

“An hour. It’s one hundred euros an hour.”

His brows are so high on his head, she fears he’ll lose them in his hair. His foot pumps onto the break and the whole car jerks again. 

“A hundred euro an hour?” He whistles and shifts the gear a little too quickly. “That’s… no wonder your profession is growing post-war. Even Ministry officials don’t make that much money.”

“It has its perks.” She glances out the window at the lights zooming by. “If you can make a career out of it, it’s one of the most lucrative businesses going.”

“And is that all it is for you?” His eyes flicker across her face and she refuses to let her face divulge any of her feelings. “A lucrative business venture?”

“It has to be,” she tells him honestly, her lips twitching at the corner. “Otherwise it gets personal and that’s too messy.”

They chat about trivial things for the rest of the drive to the hotel. Every once in a while, Hermione will point out things that Harry should see while he’s in town. He nods here and there and he’s actually quite lovely, just as she remembers. It all feels a bit strange and she’s almost relieved when they finally make it to his hotel.

Hermione is about to open the door, when someone in a lush, maroon outfit opens it and takes her hand to help her out of the car. She chews on her lip as the young man’s eyes rove her frame. She’s not embarrassed by her body — it’s been years since she’s gotten over that — but, at this fancy hotel, she feels far out of place. So far out of Harry’s world, if she’s honest. It’s all the reminder she needs that she’s not meant for his world anymore.

“Here’s the, um—” Harry hands her one hundred Euro and smiles nervously at her. “Thanks for the directions. Are you able to get back okay?”

Hermione nods and rolls up the bills. She stuffs them into her bra and Harry looks pointedly away at the ground. She can’t stop the little laugh that leaves her.

“Yeah, the closest Apparation point is just a few blocks. I’ll be fine.”

“Right.” Harry watches his luggage as it floats into the hotel. “Well — goodbye, then, Jean.”

“Goodbye, Harry Potter.” Hermione forces another smile. It’s the goodbye she’s never been able to say. It lodges in her throat as she turns around to leave him again.

She takes three whole steps and he calls out for her again. 

“Jean?” He walks around her with his hands stuffed into his expensive suit pockets. “How much for the night?”

Her eyes grow as she meets his stare. A night with Harry, here in Paris, without losing her anonymity? A chance to say a proper goodbye? How much would she pay for that privilege? It’s priceless, really.

“You couldn’t afford it,” she tells him honestly.

If nothing else, his face seems to brighten. “Try me.”

It takes her a moment. She calculates what Lavender has wasted, what she needs to get her business off the ground. And she knows Harry has the money, but she doesn’t want to take advantage. Part of her hopes to dissuade him from this. The price tumbles from her mouth and she has to hide the sadness that she’s going to say goodbye to Harry for the last time, here and now.

“A thousand Euro.”

“Done.” He waves his wand over her outfit and suddenly she’s outfitted with a long, black coat that falls to her knees. “No need to have the hotel guessing what we’re up to.”

“No, I suppose not,” she says, pulling the coat tighter around her small frame. “Harry Potter with an escort — who would believe it with the countless women who throw themselves at you?”

He laughs and leads her into the hotel without another word. She can’t believe that she’s here with him, going into his hotel room, being paid by him, and… she gulps; she hadn’t considered what comes next, not really.

Hermione can stop it all now, if she wants. She can remove her glamour and show herself for who she really is. 

But it’s better if he never knows. It’s better if he has no idea what she’s done after the war. 

He might never understand.

He might never forgive her. 

So, she says nothing and follows him into the lift with his hand guiding her at the small of her back. If this is all the time she can steal with him, Hermione is going to do it. 

Besides, he never has to know it’s her.

What can possibly go wrong?


	2. Chapter 2

“This,” Harry tells her as he swipes his wand along the door and opens it, “is where I call home for the next week.”

He stands aside and allows her to enter the penthouse. It’s massive with tall ceilings and beautiful black furnishings. It’s been years since she’s been in a place so nice. Hermione stops before stepping onto the carpet and removes her high boots. When her feet hit the plush, white carpet for the first time, it’s bliss. She hasn’t felt floor this soft in so long. She squishes her toes into it and smiles as she spins around to watch Harry close the door again.

“Not used to a place this nice, then?” He loosens the tie around his neck with a smile.

“I haven’t stayed in a place like this in…” She blows a long breath between her lips and tries to do the math in her head. “Ten years?”

Harry straightens his arm and unbuttons his cufflinks. As he rolls the sleeves up to his elbows, Hermione tries not to notice how fit he’s become. He unhooks several buttons from his neck down to the middle of his chest and she blushes. She never, ever blushes at the sight of a naked man, but this is Harry. He’s solid now, not quite as stringy as he’d been during their time at Hogwarts. And he’s cut in edges, something that she allows her eyes to linger on for a smidge too long.

“Ten years is a long time. Not very successful customers usually?” He steps further into the room and tosses a handful of soot into the Floo. Concierge answers and he asks them for champagne and strawberries. “Have a seat, love. We have all night.”

Her nerves run rampant through her as she removes the coat he’d cover her in, leaving her damn near bare in his presence again. She sits on the first small sofa that she comes to and crosses her legs, uncrosses them, and crosses them again. Her hands fumble with the hem of the short skirt on her thighs and she tries to pull it down further, but it rides back up.

Harry seems to be deriving amusement from her nerves, because he just continues to smile at her as she fidgets.

“My customers rarely want to bring me to an upscale place.” Her lips twitch as he sits down beside her. So close, she can smell the spicy cologne on his neck. “When I was growing up, my parents would travel a lot and choose hotels like this. They were—”

She can’t tell him that they’re dentists. No, he’d know her secret. 

“They’re wealthy,” he supplies for her as he places a hand on her knee.

“Were wealthy, yes,” she says breathlessly, and pushes herself up from the sofa. It’s hard enough to talk about her parents; she can’t do it with Harry’s hands on her. It’s too much, too fast, and she thinks she’s going to lose her mind. She walks to a set of double doors and pries them open to reveal a balcony.

“My parents had a lot of things,” she says as she steps out into the cool Parisian night. “None of it could save them, or me, from the war.”

He joins her on the balcony and they stand side by side overlooking the city. Bright lights, laughing people, blaring horns, brooms, the crack of apparition, sparks from magic; the beauty of Paris and its small wizard pockets in the city, buzz below them. She loves it here, really, and that’s why she’s stayed so long. The view here is gorgeous and part of her never wants to leave. She’ll take in as much as she can tonight and she’ll put the memory into her pensieve when she gets one, so that she never forgets.

“I’m sorry for your family, Jean,” he tells her sadly and runs a hand through his flyaway hair. “I know the loss. I’ve lost my family and some friends, my very best friend, she—”

Hermione swallows around a growing lump in her throat. She’s about to say somethind incredibly stupid and ruin everything, just to take that painful glaze out of his brilliant green eyes. But, he changes the subject for her and she sighs in relief.

“Your French accent is pretty good,” he chuckles and flattens his hands against the railing on the balcony. “Never would have guessed you’re English if you hadn’t told me about the war.” 

She pales and stammers and he waves her worries away. “It’s fine. I imagine being too honest in your profession is dangerous. But, you don’t have to worry with me, alright? I won’t hurt you.”

Hermione stays quiet for a very long time before she hoists herself onto the railing. “So, now that you have me here, Harry Potter, what are you going to do with me?”

He lifts his chin to look into her eyes. “I didn’t exactly plan this.”

She’s reminded of the boy from her youth and it brings a brilliant smile to her face. Hermione kicks her legs out one at a time, playfully, and shrugs her shoulders. “You can pay me. That’s one way to break the ice.”

“Do you prefer muggle or wizard money?” Harry reaches into his back pocket and withdraws a wallet. She’s surprised to see how deep he must stick his fingers into it, and then she’s immediately endeared to know that he learned the undetectable extension charm. He holds up several bills. “You said Euro, so I’m assuming this is okay?”

She takes the bills and stuffs them into her bra alongside the money he gave her earlier. “Works for me.”

Hermione lowers herself from the railing and turns Harry’s body so that he’s facing her again. She reaches for his belt buckle, but his hands close over hers. When their eyes meet, she has to hold in the slight gasp that threatens to leave her. They haven’t been this close in so long and she finally realizes how much she misses him.

“I—” He drops her hands and runs a hand up the back of his neck and massages the skin there. “I don’t… I’ve never done anything like this with a— a—”

She steps closer and fidgets with his belt again. “An escort -- the other word is too crass for me.”

He chuckles on a deep breath and she watches his throat constricting as she pulls the belt through the loops in one swift motion. “Right. I just want to pay for your time tonight. Your company. No strings attached.”

It’s such a Harry declaration that she can’t stop the stupid smile that takes over her face. The movement draws his attention and he’s staring at her lips. Closer and closer and she’s about to break her own rule — no kissing on the lips. But it’s Harry and he’s here and she’s missed him so much and just  _ once _ won’t hurt, right? His breath tickles her nose and the ghost of his lips touch hers. 

A knock on the door breaks them apart. She could kick herself for nearly allowing the kiss and she turns from him quickly to answer the door and try and reel in her emotions. She’s not here for Harry to try and rekindle her feelings, no. She’s here to say goodbye and there will be no kissing on the lips.

None.

“Champagne and strawberries for Mister Potter?” The bellboy tries not to let his eyes travel her body, but he fails. When he finally meets her eyes again, he blushes and she smiles. “W-where would you like them?”

Harry directs him to the sofa and hands him a small tip for his troubles. Hermione watches the exchange, the odd suave gesture that she never would have believed of Harry until she sees it with her own eyes. The world has changed and people have grown up and she’s missed it all. She sits on the sofa and crosses her legs at the ankle as Harry presents her with lush, bright red strawberries. She takes one and sinks her teeth in; the burst of flavor is wonderful, a delight she hasn’t partaken in for so long.

If nothing else, this rendezvous with Harry is reminding her that she’s missed out on so much these past ten years.

Harry hands her a flute of champagne and she offers him a strawberry. He tries to take it between his fingers, but she pulls it away and clicks her tongue with a mischievous glint in her eyes. The stare is intense as he watches her and lowers his mouth down to the strawberry. Suddenly not as funny, her lips return to a straight line, parted on a breath. He takes her hand in his and nibbles on the strawberry until all that’s left is the little green leaf on the tip.

He encourages her to drop the remains on the plate. When she lets go, he places a kiss on the tips of her fingers. Her heart slams inside her chest and she can hear the blood rushing between her ears. He presses his lips to the inside of her wrist, then all the way up her forearm, until he’s leaning over her -- nose to nose. Harry’s lips are just shy of hers when she pushes him back and jumps from the sofa.

“Need the toilet!”

She dashes off and closes the door of the loo behind her. Her chest heaves under the pressure of her erratic breathing and she rests against the door for a moment to regain her thoughts. It’s Harry; she knew what was bound to happen when she chose to come here. It’s not a surprise. She just needs a moment to shove her emotions to the side and clean her mouth because she can feel the niggling strawberry seeds and her parents taught her nothing if they didn’t teach her proper oral care.

She reaches into one of her pockets and pulls out the dental floss that she carries with her everywhere. She only just gets one of the seeds dislodged and the loo door bangs open. She jumps, startled, and backs up into the wall.

Harry looks livid, his eyes narrow and lips a thin line. “Are you doing drugs or potions in here? I don’t agree with those things and I won’t have them in my room. You can get your things and—”

“No, no! Harry, it’s not like that.” Hermione opens her hand and shows him the small, white container with the floss. “I was just… just flossing my teeth. The strawberries, they have seeds and—”

Harry laughs, a good, hearty chuckle and he swipes the floss out of her hand. “Floss, really? Now?”

She steals back the floss and shoves it into her pocket as she deposits the used string into the bin. “You shouldn’t neglect your gums!”

There’s a look that crosses his face and she holds her breath. It’s familiar and piercing and perhaps he’s trying to figure out if she’s lying about the drugs, but he seems curious, too, with a raised eyebrow and crooked smile.

“Alright, Jean,” he says finally and leads her out into the main room again. “Sorry. I’m just — I’ve watched the effect of potions on my friends after the war and — well, I suppose I’m a touch sensitive about them.”

Hermione understands. She’s nursed Lavender back to health more often than she likes. “I never used potions to get over — everything. But, one of my friends here did. We left England together, actually.”

“Did she pull you into this profession, or are you the bad influence?”

Hermione scoffs and then dissolves into laughter at the cheeky smile on his face. She pinches him on the side until he grabs her hands with an “oi” and laughs with her.

“She’s a mess, but she’s all I have,” she says as she reaches for the forgotten flute of champagne. “She helped me when I got here, no friends, no family, but she had someone and, well, this just came naturally.”

“Naturally?” He lifts one brow and watches as she swallows the golden liquid in several gulps.

“What do you suppose war orphans do for money when they have no money, nothing but the clothes on their backs, and nowhere to stay?”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean— ” 

She waves him off and sets down her glass. “I’m not ashamed of what I do. I’m actually quite good at it. And La— my friend, she helped me see that one day, I can make a good business out of this. I just have to work for it.”

“Hm.” Harry’s eyes dark to her lip where she chews on the corner. He reaches forward and plucks the plump flesh from between her teeth. “I’ve never heard of an escort entrepreneur before. Would that make you a pimp, then?”

It takes all of her strength not to laugh outright, but the question is so innocent and his fingers so soft against her, that she doesn’t want to offend him for fear that it would change the atmosphere they’ve settled into.

“I suppose, if you like looking at things from a simple point of view, sure. I could be a pimp one day.” They both chuckle; somehow they’ve ended up close again. Her skirt rides up her thigh and she’s not fidgeting with it now. Nerves are replaced with something stronger, something needy. “I prefer to think of myself as a manager of particular talents.”

“Oh?” A notch forms between his eyebrows. His fingers flex toward her and gently touch the skin on the outside of her thigh. She glances down at it and loses her breath. “And, these particular talents — you have them as well?”

Her eyes snap to his and she nods. “What kind of manager doesn’t know the work of her employees?”

His gaze darkens and a thrill shoots up her spine. She’s seen those eyes once before, a long time ago in a tent in the Forest of Dean. Hermione holds her breath as his hands reach out and circle her hips. He encourages her to straddle his lap and holds her firmly in place. She’s taller than him this way and she smiles down as he tilts his chin up to look into her eyes. He tries to kiss her, but she ducks down to his earlobe and takes it between her teeth.

He loses a noise from his lungs as she presses her lips below his ear and nibbles on his neck. His grip tightens and then he moves his palms to the tops of her thighs.

“It’s been a while since—” He whispers through a gasp when she finds a particularly sensitive spot near his jugular.

“Shh.” She presses her lips to that spot again, just to hear that noise. “This is the part I’m good at.”


	3. Chapter 3

It’s been a long time since Hermione has slept so soundly.

She stretches her bare skin against the soft sheets and smiles into her pillow. Last night was a dream, surely, with how satisfied she feels. Her goodbye to Harry is as perfect as she can hope, but there’s something that begins to niggle inside of her. She tries to ignore it and stands from the bed with her glamoured, blonde curly hair in disarray around her head. The sheets cling to her curves as she drags them around her body and leaves the bedroom in search of her — Harry.

He stands at the Floo with a full breakfast spread on the table behind him. Hermione sits herself and immediately digs into the buffet. Sausage and eggs and toast — Merlin, she hasn’t had a breakfast like this in so long. Perhaps it’s the least ladylike thing she can do, but she piles food into her mouth at top speed.

Harry, on the other hand, is engaged with someone on the Floo. A head of floppy blonde hair peeks out of the grate. If she didn’t know any better, she’d think it’s Cormac McLaggen — 

“The bloody Bulgarians are cock-blocking the Irish at every turn and it’s a fucking fiasco, Potter.”

_ Definitely  _ Cormac. Hermione smiles around a bite of egg.

“I don’t care about their sex lives, Cormac. I need them to sponsor the bill so that it has a shot at passing.” Harry pinches the bridge of his nose and paces the small area. “Right, I’ll be down to the Summit in an hour. Can you keep them sweet until then? No talk of sex?”

Cormac’s image shrugs. “Doesn’t keep them interested for long, but I’ll find something.”

“ _ Not _ Quidditch,” Harry says suddenly, but Cormac is already gone from the Floo. “Merlin, that bloke will be the death of me one day.”

“Oh sure,” Hermione laughs and nearly inhaled her sausage. “Lord Voldemort — no problem. Cormac McLaggen — death trap.”

Harry stares at her in silence. She shifts in the sheet and continues to munch on the food until it gets so u comfortable that she mumbles a ‘what’ as the food rolls around her mouth.

“It’s just — I never hear anyone refer to Voldemort by name, not even ten years after…” He takes a seat across from her and tousles his hair. It’s worse this morning than it was last night.

“Fear of a name—”

“Only increases fear of the thing itself, I know.” He stabs a sausage with his fork and levels her with an inquisitive stare. “You know Cormac?”

Oh, Merlin, she’s doing terribly at this. Being with Harry is so natural and she forgets that she’s not Hermione Granger to him. She’s cocked it up badly. Hermione pushes herself from the table.

“I think I should go,” she says suddenly and shoots off to the bedroom to find her clothes. She can hear his feet padding closer to her and she quickly pulls on the skirt. 

Harry enters the room as she’s pulling her shirt over her breasts, no bra, and looks away. “Er, sorry. I don’t know what I said, but I wish you’d stay for breakfast, Jean.”

She fluffs her hair and stows all of her extras away in extended pockets.

“No, I’m sorry, Harry. I really should go.”

Hermione breezes by him again and heads for the door. The sooner she can get to an Apparition point, the better. She should have left in the night, never should have slept over. And she definitely should have kept her mouth shut about Voldemort and McLaggen.

She swings the door open, but Harry closes it with his hand over her head. “Don’t, please.”

“Harry.” She sighs and turns. They’re close again and she tries desperately not to get lost in his eyes and his scent and his very Harry presence. “I stayed for the night, but I really should go. I have things to do and you have to attend the Summit.”

“I know. I just thought—” His hand drops from overhead and he caresses the side of her face with it. “What if I asked you to stay this week with me?”

Hermione can’t help it. She gasps and clutches her chest. Her heart hammers beneath it. “What?”

His stare is so intense that she thinks she might faint. “How much for you to stay with me the entire week?”

“Uhh—” For the first time, possibly in her entire life, Hermione Granger is speechless. Her jaw hangs open even as he smiles and tucks a lock of curls behind her ear.

“I’m in need of a professional, no romantic hassles. Someone who can accompany me to business meetings and functions without getting confused about feelings.” He pushes away from the door and leans against a nearby chair with his ankles crossed. “I’ve only just ended a relationship and to be honest, I’m not very good at them.”

Hermione just stares because she has no idea what to say. She can’t even organize her thoughts. An entire week? With Harry. Pretending to be his date?

“I’m serious, Jean, I actually need this.” He’s earnest and certain and he stuffs his hands into his pockets and his tie is dangling untied around his neck and all she can think about is that, Merlin, she’d love to be the one to tie it for a week. “Please?”

“Harry—” Hermione steps over to him and takes the ends of the tie in her hands. She makes slow work of folding them together and knotting it at his neck. “I— I don’t think you can afford it.”

His hands cover hers as she tightens the tie. “Try me.”

“Ten thousand Euros.” She pulls the number out of thin air in a panic.

“Five.” His lips twitch at the corner.

She narrows her eyes. “Eight.”

His smile is brilliant. “Done.”

She pats the lapels of his shirt and turns to walk away, but not before calling over her shoulder, “You’re never going to let me go.”

“Oh, Jean,” Harry chuckles after her, “I  _ will _ let you go.”

The click of the door behind him sets Hermione in motion. She runs to the floo and tosses in a handful of soot, shouting to Lavender in a breathy voice. Lavender’s face pops into the grate and she’s smiling like a fool.

“Where on earth are you?” She asks, the words wrapped in an excitable lilt. “Did you stay with Harry Potter all night?”

Hermione can’t control herself. She squeals at Lavender through a laugh and flails her hands against her thighs. “Lav! Oh, Merlin, it’s unbelievable, look!” 

She leans to the side to allow Lavender a view of the penthouse and Lavender joins her in ungodly screeching. “Does he know who you are? Oh my God, are you going back to England with him?”

“No, of course not!” Hermione shakes her head. The last thing she needs is to return to rainy old England with all the questions and explanations and she can’t. She has to say goodbye. “He’s paying me to stay with him for the full week, Lav. Jean, he’s paying Jean.”

Lavender’s hand covers her mouth, little spaces between her fingers as her eyes widen and search Hermione’s face. “A full week? Hermione, he must be paying you hundreds! And he doesn’t know it’s you? Are you going to tell him?”

“Merlin, no. He’ll want to take me back and I—” She falters. She can’t. It’s too hard for her to imagine being surrounded by people who once depended on her, who’d never understand why she left and why she stayed away. It’s too much. No, she’ll never go back. “He doesn’t have to know who I am. I can finally say goodbye and, Lav, he’s paying me eight thousand Euros for the week.”

“Eight…” Lavender gasps and then coughs when the soot flies into her throat. When she speaks again, it’s raspy and her eyes shine. “Fucking hell, Hermione. If he knew who he was giving that money to — wait! Wait! Did you... “

Hermione gnaws on the corner of her lip as she tries to control the massive smile that’s about to take over. “I did. I’m an escort, of course I did!”

“Bollocks! You’ve wanted to fuck him since sixth year, Hermione Granger!” Lavender falls into a peel of laughter and wipes the soot away from her face. “You better hope he never finds out it’s you. Eight thousand Euro and he may never forgive you for lying to him for it.”

“I’m not lying to him  _ for it _ !” But her throat is suddenly dry and the volume of her voice drops low. “He offered, it’s not like I asked. And he was pushy about it. He  _ wants _ to spend the week with Jean and it’s a win-win. It’ll help pay to start our own service, right? How can I say no?”

“Merlin.” There’s a beat of silence between them. “So what are you supposed to do with him all week? He’s at the Ministry Summit, yeah?”

“I think I’m arm candy?” Hermione laughs, because never in her life would she ever consider herself arm candy. Not that she doesn’t think she’s pretty — she  _ is _ , just unconventionally. The glamour, however, changes it, with her blonde hair and perfect cheekbones. Now she’s conventionally pretty. Jean, the blonde bombshell. “He’s taking me to fancy dress parties and dinners.”

“Wearing that?” Lavender makes a show of scrutinizing Hermione’s garb and wrinkles her nose. “He’s a Very Important Wizard. He can’t have a—”

“An escort,” Hermione supplies quickly, because she hates the other word.

“Right. You’ll need new clothes.” Lavender bites her lip and then flails. “Oh! Oh! Ask the concierge. They’ll tell you the proper places to shop. Do you have money?”

“He paid me up front for last night.” Hermione pulls it from her extendable pockets and flashes the money at Lavender, whose eyes practically turn into cartoon money symbols.

“What are you waiting for, then? Go!” Lavender laughs as she gestures for Hermione to go. “I’ll talk to you in a week!”

The Floo cuts off before Hermione can say anything else. She’s left alone to her thoughts, which she’s been able to avoid since stepping into Harry’s hire car the night before.

She’s lying to Harry, which she feels horribly about. Lav is right; he’s going to be so furious if he finds out who she is and how she’s deceived him. She doesn’t mean any harm, but she can’t turn away from him. He’s home to her and she’s missed home so much these past few years.

Leaving England was the hardest thing she’s ever done. Seeing Harry — walking away from him — would have been impossible.

She’s a terrible friend. But she’s not sorry for stealing these moments.

“Jean?”

She jumps. Harry’s face is in the Floo. He appears harried and she’s sure she can hear Cormac in the background cursing at someone else. She tries not to laugh at his colorful language as she sits at the Floo and waves at Harry.

“Good day?” she jokes and smiles brilliantly when he laughs in response.

“That’s Cormac. Colorful, to the point.” His grin is wide as he pushes his glasses up on his nose. “I’ve left instructions with the concierge to take care of you today. We have a dinner tonight at half six. You up for it?”

She nods —  _ yes _ , she’s very much up for it. “I just need to get to a shop for clothes that aren’t… this.”

“Go see the front desk. They’ll sort you out.” Harry’s face turns away and then back again. “Sorry, he’s — no, McLaggen,  _ fuck _ , don’t—”

The Floo cuts off as the green ash turns gray and Harry’s face disappears.

Shite. She needs a shop.

Hermione glances down in her barely-there outfit and frowns. Concierge, it is.

When she arrives in the lobby, every eye gives her a glance. Some appreciative of her body, others judgmental. She sighs, but thankfully spots the dark maroon suit coat of the concierge.

“Er, excuse me, monsieur?” Hermione taps a tall, broad-shouldered man on the shoulder. He turns and she gasps.

The last face she expects to see. A smirk, crinkled skin at the corner of his eyes, which hold a cheeky gleam.

Theodore Nott.

“What are you doing here?” She demands, forgetting that she’s hidden behind a glamour and appears nothing short of an indignant stranger to him.

“Mademoiselle, but I work here, non?” Theo’s thick French accent is a surprise to her; it’s almost as convincing as her own. She wonders if he’s lived here for as long as she has. “What can I help you with today?”

“The man I’m staying with, Harry Potter,” she says, shrinking under Theo’s scrutinizing eye, “he plans to take me to fancy dress dinners and I only have  _ this _ .”

Hermione features to the skimpy outfit and sighs when Theo lingers too long on her curves. She snaps her fingers in front of his eyes and he offers her a lopsided smile in penance.

“I have just the place for you to travel, darling.” He holds up a finger and beckons her to follow after him. When he reaches the desk, he writes a note and offers her Floo powder. “Pansy, a former associate of mine, will take care of you. Take this letter and I’ll Floo you to her shop.”

“Pansy?” Hermione’s stomach drops. Oh Merlin, this is a terrible idea.

“Oui,” Theo grins as he pushes her into the fireplace and tosses the Floo powder at her feet. “Pensée.”

The lobby of the hotel, and Theo’s cheeky smile, disappear from her view as dread pools in her stomach. She’s never been a shopper and she’s absolutely never been a fan of Pansy Parkinson.


	4. Chapter 4

He’d told Jean that he will let her go. But, Harry isn’t quite sure he believes it. She’s brilliant and funny and fucking gorgeous. He’s so smitten that it makes him feel ridiculous when he looks at her and all he can think about is taking her home to England and marrying the shite out of her.

But, he promised her that he’d let her go. And so he will.

He’ll probably need a ton of whisky and a few good nights out with Cormac and Ron. But he can do it. Most likely.

Still, as he sits at a modern, marble top table in the bowels of the French Ministry, Harry tries to keep his mind on  _ why _ he’s in Paris. The Werewolf Legislation -- Hermione’s Bill. Cormac grins from a black leather chair across from him and scratches absently at the scruff around his jaw.

“So, we’re sorted then,” Cormac says, interrupting Harry’s distracted thoughts. “If Monsieur Dubois believes Malfoy’s money will win this, then we take it and storm the Ministry and line the right pockets.”

“It just feels wrong.” Harry musses his crazy hair and presses his glasses up on the bridge of his nose. “I want someone to actually  _ care _ about what we’re doing. If we want to line pockets with a bunch of money, then what does it matter about the law changing -- no one will care.”

“We’ll care,” Cormac points out brightly. “Malfoy will care. Granger would care, if she had any idea at all what you were up to.”

“If she even bothered to stay in Britain to begin with, you mean,” Harry despairs. He presses his hands against the table and heaves himself from the chair. “Look. First we have to get the money from Malfoy, then we have to actually talk some high-up politicians into actually  _ taking _ the money. Let’s just -- one step at a time, yeah?”

“Right-o, mate.” Cormac bounces to his feet and stuffs his hands in his pocket as he follows Harry from the large room into a corridor lined with old, vibrant artwork. “So, meeting with Malfoy tonight. You have a date, as we discussed?" 

Harry runs his hands through his hair and grimaces. Jean is… not what Malfoy will expect and he wonders if it isn’t better to show up alone. He starts to tell Cormac just that, but Cormac holds up a hand and bares the strictest of expressions.

“Oh no, Potter, no way,” Cormac shakes his finger. “You can’t go to an important lunch with someone like Malfoy alone. You need a buffer. It’s just how business is done. You  _ do _ have a date, right? Is Ginny hitching a broom?”

Harry laughs. “That’s well over, no.”

“Then who are you bringing to dinner?” He lifts a light brown eyebrow and scrutinizes Harry’s face to the point that Harry feels a blush creep up his neck. Thank Merlin for collars.

“No one you would know.” And that’s how Harry leaves him in the reception area of the Ministry, shiny black shoes clicking against the dark tile as he strides through to the Floo grate.

When he enters the Floo of the hotel and steps out, Theo Nott greets him like a fussy mother hen. He wipes the soot off Harry’s shoulders and asks if he needs dinner sent to his room. Harry laughs and steps away, glancing around the lobby for a certain blonde bombshell he’d left earlier that morning.

“Ah, Monsieur, your niece is waiting for you in the lounge.” Theo winks and gestures toward a short corridor that leads into a much larger room.

Niece? Harry loses a laugh and straightens his tie as he levels a peculiar look at Theo’s cheerful face. “You and I both know she’s not my niece, because I’m an only child.”

They share a conspiratorial sort of look before Harry walks casually away toward the lounge. He finds her seated with her back to him and he’s momentarily arrested. Her dark, dimpled back is lined by a black deep V down to her tailbone. Her blonde hair is in ringlets around her shoulders. Her face is turned to the side as she laughs at something a patron at the bar says and Harry steps forward, propelled by jealousy.

His hand finds the small of her back and he leans down to her ear. “There you are.”

“Here I am,” she laughs and uncrosses her legs before pushing herself away from the bar. “You look — well, I’m glad Theo was able to point me to Pansy’s boutique anyway. Even if she is a complete nightmare.”

Harry laughs and holds his hand out to her. She takes it and he leads her from the lobby to a hire car waiting outside. “Theo’s helpful to his friends. And nightmare or not, Pansy absolutely knows fashion. You look incredible, by the way.”

He likes the way she smiles at him; the apples of her cheeks flush and her eyes light up. She’s got the smallest dimple at the edge of her lips and he has an incredible urge to kiss it. But, he resists. He can’t wait to show her off to Draco Malfoy of all people. Malfoy, who somehow always had the most gorgeous girls on his arm, wouldn’t believe that Harry, who tended toward homely women, could escort such a beauty.

“It’s a big night tonight,” Harry informs her as he opens her door and holds her hand while she lowers herself into the car. He catches sight of her thin-heeled, strappy black shoes and has to stop himself from groaning as an image of her wearing only those floods his mind. It’s going to be a long night. He takes a moment to pull himself together as he walks around the car and scoots in close to her. “Have you heard of a bloke called Draco Malfoy?”

He swears he can hear her breathing change. Shallow, quick, like the beat of a hummingbird’s wings. Ah, then, she does know of him. Her soulful, brown eyes meet his and there’s so much worry there. He reaches out to her, skims her cheek with the edge of his finger, and smiles.

“So you’ve heard of him then?” A light chuckle leaves him. “That’s not an uncommon reaction, I’m afraid. And yes, he’s the big dinner date tonight.”

“But why?” Her eyebrows form a notch. “Wasn’t he convicted of multiple crimes by the Wizengamot? He was locked in Azkaban, wasn’t he?”

It surprises him constantly how much she knows about England. Sure, Harry knows that she grew up there, that she was part of war in a way that she hasn’t disclosed, but he wonders briefly if there’s more that he doesn’t know. His Auror senses are tingling.

“He was,” Harry says with a slight jut of his chin. “Until I spoke at his trial and advised the tribunal that his actions were coerced, that he acted under extreme duress, and that his mother saved my life. He’s a twat, but he doesn’t deserve The Kiss.”

It’s quiet for most of the ride to the restaurant. He watches Jean as she stares at the pavement racing outside her window. He wonders what she’s thinking, why she’s so affected by the actions of Malfoy during the war. If she only knew everything, maybe Harry can pull her from the deep and troubling ruminations she’s currently lost in.

“Jean?” His hand rests on top of hers on her lap. She jumps, but offers him a tight smile that’s just shy of breaking his heart. “There’s something you should probably know about Malfoy.” Harry curls his hand around hers and brings it against his lap while his thumb swipes gently across her knuckles. “He’s a werewolf.”

Her reaction is exactly as he anticipated. She gasps, her other hand coming to rest over her lips. Jean searches his eyes, widening her gaze as she turns her body towards him. He likes the feel of her smaller hand in his, how her fingers flex between his as she tries to take in what he’s said.

“A werewolf?” Her words are a quiet breath between them, barely there. “No, that’s impossible. He couldn’t be.”

“I thought the same thing before I visited him in Azkaban shortly before his trial.” Harry feels those dark edges pushing at his bright mood. He doesn’t like to go there if he can help it, but something about the worry in Jean’s eyes make him try. “Narcissa begged me to see him, to help. I owed her for what she did for me at the end, for lying to Voldemort -- did you know that? A Malfoy lied for a Potter, told him I was dead even though she could feel me breathing. I  _ owed _ her.”

“But--” Jean bites down on her lip and drops her gaze to their tangled hands. “How could you possibly help him? You can’t cure lycanthropy.”

His lips twitch despite the serious tone of her voice. “No, I can’t. But, I can try to make the world in which a werewolf lives a little more accepting toward their condition.”

“You’re… fighting for werewolf rights?” Her winged brows lift high and he’s surprised when the light from nearby light post brings out the golden flecks in her eyes. God, he wants to grab her by the back of her neck and claim her lips so bad, but he lets the moment fizzle away, a clumsy shrug to his shoulders.

“It’s a fight that’s close to my heart.” His thoughts drift to Remus, to his orphaned son, Teddy. How Hermione had said that it was up to them to change the law, to give Teddy a fair shot at a normal life in the shadow of his father. His father who was a war hero but still slandered by The Daily Prophet for being a werewolf. His smile was tight.

“Because… you  _ like _ Draco Malfoy now?” 

He couldn’t help but laugh at her skeptical frown. “No. Merlin, no. Does anyone really like Malfoy?”

They share a good, deep belly laugh as they pull into a busy car park. It rests in front of a tall building whose double wooden doors were framed by thick, white columns. Purple flowers and lush green brush lined the entire building. The smell of lilac and wisteria overwhelms his senses as the door of the car is opened by the chauffeur. Harry shakes the hand of the driver and exchanges a large note with a suave gesture of his hand. When he opens the door for Jean, his heart stops dead.

A single, tan, lithe calf extends out to the pavement. Her heel digs into the ground as the rest of her body follows suit, but his eyes are captivated with the curve of her leg and the glimpse of silky skin that’s exposed in a slit up the side of her dress.

Fucking hell, he’s so bloody randy for her that it takes her clearing her throat for him to pull his gaze away.

“Right.” He straightens his suit coat and his tie before holding his elbow out for her to take. “The important thing about tonight is to get Malfoy to agree to finance the bill.”

“Okay.” She steps with him in perfect rhythm, her hand wrapped in his elbow.

They step into the main dining area and are escorted immediately to the Malfoy party table, where Malfoy is sitting with a doe-eyed brunette with high cheekbones and pouty, pink lips. Her dress is shorter than Jean’s, but where it’s poofy as is the fashion, Jean’s is sleek and hugs her curves. Harry thinks he’s the lucky one tonight.

“Potter. This is Elise.” Malfoy shakes his hand and gestures to his date.

Harry places his lips on the back of her hand. “Lovely to meet you, Elise. This is Jean.”

“Oh, your dress is an original Pensée, is it not?” Elise kisses Jean on both cheeks and drags her to the chair at her side. “I adore the boutique, but the owner is--”

Jean laughs and finishes Elise’s sentence for her. “A nightmare.”

The two women are fast friends and it warms Harry’s heart to see that Jean positively charms everyone wherever she goes. He isn’t sure what they talk about after that; his attention is solely on Draco and the menu that’s placed in front of him.

“This legislation is important, not only for werewolves, but for vampires, merfolk, and centaurs.” Harry leans in to Draco and watches as he flinches. It’s something he always noticed with Remus, too, and so he refuses to back away or show any fear. “We need to get it before the Wizengamot before they break for winter, but no one will listen to a bunch of war kids.”

“Ffft. You’re Harry Bloody Potter, Patron Saint of Wizarding Britain, and Vanquisher of The Dark Lord.” Draco rolls his eyes. “Everyone listens to you.”

Harry laughs and scratches at his jaw. “If only. I’ve been told that my relationship with the… outcasts… has made me unreliable. And, honestly, there’s a lot of bad blood with the court ever since they tried to expel me from Hogwarts in fifth year.”

“Right. So, what do you need from me? Last I checked, the Ministry refuses to hear the cases of werewolves. They’ll suggest Mungo’s for Wolfsbane, but will have me escorted off the premises should I try to argue my right to exist.”

“That’s disgusting.”

Harry turns to find Jean eyeing Malfoy over her menu. Her tight gaze and deep frown are frozen on her face.

“Pardon me?” Malfoy balks, cheeks turning pink. “I didn’t presume that Harry Potter would bring an anti-werewolf bint to dinner while trying to woo me--”

Harry panics. Heart thumping madly against his sternum. “She didn’t mean—”

Jeans menu flops angrily on the table. Her chin is raised, eyes like fire. “The deplorable actions of the Ministry and its archaic laws are an embarrassment to the world. That you’ve had to remove yourself from their presence, over something you can’t control, something that was done  _ to you _ and without your consent is so detestable that I have half a mind to contact Kingsley Shacklebolt and demand action  _ right this very second _ .”

The entire table, including a stunned Harry and most surrounding patrons of the restaurant, are dead silent. The only echoing noise is Jean’s breathing that hitches in her chest. Harry glances at Draco from the corner of his eye and finds him staring at her strangely. Something flickering in his gaze, his lips turning up at the edges. And then he barks out a hearty laugh.

“Potter, how is it that you find the swottiest, boldest Gryffindors wherever you go?” He’s still chuckling as he takes a sip of his water. “You should have led with her.”

Relief floods him and he grins in Jean’s direction. She’s irritated still, with flaming cheeks and rapid breathing. He sets his hand on her knee under the table and leans into her. A soft whisper caresses his cheek. “You’re absolutely fucking brilliant.”

“Alright, Scarhead.” Harry rolls his eyes at Draco’s juvenile nickname, but doesn’t bother to argue. “What is it you need from me?”

“Financing.” The word leaves him like a beat, not hesitating to hit Malfoy exactly where he needs to. “We need to line the right pockets in order to whisper in the right ears.”

“If they won’t listen to you and they sure as hell won’t listen to me, then who exactly is going to ‘line their pockets’?” Draco tilts his chin at Jean. “Her?”

She covers her mouth over a chuckle and shakes her head. “I’m a resident of France, monsieur. The British Ministry will not listen to the likes of me.”

Harry watches the exchange like he might watch exploding snap; back and forth between the two with interest. But, instead of sticky goop exploding from gobstones, he’s gobsmacked at how well they get along, despite that Jean clearly disliked him before the dinner.

“Alright, I’m in.” Draco flags their waiter over with a flick of his finger. “I’ll have the funds moved around in Gringott’s tomorrow. Let’s eat.”

If Harry didn’t know better, he’d say that the gleam shining in Jean’s eyes isn’t from her laughter. No, that’s pride.


	5. Chapter 5

When Hermione blinks into consciousness, the first thing she notices is that she’s alone. Harry, who’d fallen asleep with his arms curled around her, is no longer in bed. She sits up, hands clutching the sheet around her chest, and glances around the dark room for him. Twice, while her eyes adjust to the night.

He’s nowhere to be seen and so she walks through the penthouse. No sign of him. No noise, no shadow. He’s simply gone.

She wonders if she’d ruined things during dinner with Malfoy. It seemed to have gone okay, especially since she didn’t stab him with a fork or try to drown him in a vat of water. However, she’s not sure why Harry would up and leave her otherwise.

Hermione kneels in front of the Floo grate and tosses sprinkle of powder inside. Theo’s face, cheeky and wide awake, answers.

“Good evening, Ms.  _ Jean _ .” His French accent is gone and replaced by the English brogue she’d known before. “What can I do for you this evening?”

“Have you seen Harry?” She doesn’t think to react to his teasing lilt. She only wants to find Harry. To make sure he hasn’t just left her here.

Theo grins wide, crinkling his eyes at the corners. “He’s on the roof.”

“The… roof?” She blinks. Perhaps this is a dream and she’ll wake up with Harry beside her soon.

“Playing a version of Quidditch that we’ve modified for our guests,” he supplies as if it’s the most logical conclusion she should have come to. “He’s asked for priva-”

She cuts the floo off and dashes to the door. It swings open and she can’t remember if she’s closed it or not before she’s barreling down the hallway toward the stairs that will lead her to the rooftop. When the heavy door swings open, he’s only several feet away and hovering in the air. His eyes dart around in the night, broom twisting in all directions. She assumes he’s Seeking and an unbidden smile melts away a layer of concern on her tired face.

Small steps carry her towards him as she grips the sheet tighter around her small frame. The breeze up here is cold and she can feel it in her bones.

“Harry,” she whispers, placing herself only a short distance from him. “Are you alright?”

He lands and reaches out, tugging her toward his broom as he balances to keep them steady. “I come out here to think. I’m alright.”

He lifts a lopsided smile and then suddenly hoists her onto his broom, facing him. She shrieks; she  _ loathes _ flying.

“Let me down, Harry!”

“No.” Harry buries his nose into her neck, finger skirting up the sheet until he grasps it at the edge and yanks it from her grasp. “You. Are. Stunning.” He enunciates every syllable as his tongue rolls down her throat and towards her nipples. “Do you trust me?”

Her mind spins out of control. The touch of his lips, the heat of his breath on her sends goosebumps exploding along her arms. She nods; if there’s anyone in the universe she trusts, it’s Harry.

The slight breeze of the night nips along her skin as Harry dips his face close to hers. He wants to kiss her, she can feel it. But she turns her head at the last second, her stomach clenching even as his breathy chuckle slides against her cheek. His hands are all over her then, skimming along her hips and then climbing her rib cage until he has a handful of her breasts. And, oh, how he worships them.

There’s something about straddling a broom in the wide open air of Paris that sets her nerves alight with need. Harry’s mouth is everywhere, paying special attention to the spots that make her moan and take him by the back of the neck, crushing him against her.

When her hand cups his erection through his silky pajama bottoms, the broom jerks and she nearly falls off. It’s his fast reflexes that spare her a bruised tailbone. He tosses the broom to the side and pulls her gently to the ground on top of him.

“Still won’t kiss me?” he asks, hands firmly digging into her bum and pulling her hips as close as possible.

“Sorry,” she says just before nipping at his ear. There’s something feral in Harry this time that wasn’t there the first time. He’s demanding of her, though it’s the softest a lover has ever been. “It’s too personal.”

“So you’ve said.” And there’s something in his voice, something rough and sad, but she can’t break her rule. Not for him, especially not for him.

* * *

Things are getting far too familiar for Hermione. She spent the night in bed with Harry, after their rendezvous on the hotel rooftop, with his lips exploring every part of her body -- except her lips. He held her close and tried to coerce her into a proper snog, but she refused over and over. It was becoming less about how personal it was and more about her inability to come to terms with the fact that after a week, he’d be going back to England and she’d be… here.

Before he left in the morning for his summit, Harry tried one more time. And one more time, Hermione refused him. But, she promised to make it up to him and so, just before he’s due back to the hotel, Hermione digs out one of his ties from the wardrobe and perches herself on the desk at the corner of the room.

When he walks in, he’s smiling and her name falls from his lips. But, when he finally sees her with her legs crossed at the knees and wearing only a crimson colored tie and the strappy heels from the night before, his bright eyes darken to a shade of forest green. He drops the folders he’s carrying straight to the floor. All of his clothes are shed one piece at a time as he makes his way across the room towards her. His smile playful and promising and it coils something needy in her belly.

Harry takes her right on top of the desk with her leg hitched over his hip and his fingers digging into her waist.

And, he’s not done with her then. No, he takes her on the sofa and on the bed and still hasn’t gotten off by the time he drags her into the bath.

She sits with her back to his chest, body perfectly fit against his. Warm water and bubbles cover her body all the way to the top of her breasts as Harry uses a soft cloth to cleanse her skin. Over her shoulders and down her arms, so innocent at first. His lips pillow against her neck, tongue laving slow caresses from her ear to her shoulder. She’s a mess of feelings; a raw need that won’t seem to go away no matter how many times he brings her crashing over the edge of her climax.

“We secured a ministry official today,” he whispers as he directs the flannel over her chest and onto her coiled stomach.

She isn’t sure what to say, so he breathes a quiet, “That’s good.”

His hand moves lower and lower until his clothed fingers delve against her heat. Hermione’s head lolls back against his shoulder and she squirms to allow him better access. His arousal presses into her back as he moves over her, slowly at first and then quicker as the little noises she makes spur him on. He latches onto her neck -- she knows she’s going to have a mark there now -- and stills his hand as she moves against him, grinding on his hands and seeking out her release.

As she comes down from her high, he moves his hand and parts from her neck. “Jean,” his voice is rough, low, and despite that she can’t possibly go again, she wants him still. “Tell me that this is just for me. Even if it’s not true -- let me pretend it is.”

She’s careful when she turns in the tub and kneels between his legs. Her body is covered in soapy water and it drips from her hair onto his chest as she leans over him. Hands comb through his impossible raven hair and he’s watching her every move so closely that she can’t help the flush of heat that claws its way up from her chest to her cheeks.

Her fingers rub against his scalp and she lightly tugs his head back. Chin up, eyes directed to hers. “This is only for you, Harry. I promise, it’s only for you.”

Hermione lowers her face to his, only inches left between their lips. Harry’s warm breath fans against her face and she closes her eyes. It would be so easy, just to kiss him. To feel that impossible closeness with Harry for even a fraction of a moment. Her heart thunders, blood boils for him. But, as Harry’s hands capture her face, it’s far too real for Hermione.

She dips her lips to the corner of his mouth and gently leaves a trail of kisses to his neck. The noise that leaves him is something between a moan and growl. But, then it’s her name that echoes around the bathroom as she negotiates the tub and rides him until she can pretend to forget about the almost-kiss and the burning desire it leaves imprinted in her thoughts.

Even though she’s never been a fan of flying, Hermione loves Quidditch. From the time she first watched Harry on his broomstick winning Gryffindor their first match of the school year, to the final time she watched Harry and the Weasleys play a game at The Burrow, Quidditch made her happy. She loved to cheer for her friends and feel the cool autumn wind against her cheeks. She loved dressing in kit colors and joining in with the crowd around her.

So, when Harry brings her to a big, international Quidditch match as his date, she’s excited. It’s been so long since she’s watched a match. Harry can’t stop smiling at her and she elbows him in the side when he teases her about it.

“I don’t know how you manage to stay away from Quidditch,” he shakes his head as he leads her into a massive box high in the stands. “The French have one of the best teams going for this year’s Cup.”

“I’ve been too busy focusing on my other priorities,” she explains with a playful roll of her eyes.

The box that Harry sweeps her into is massive and lined with more than a dozen roomy seats. Some of them are filled, Ministry officials she thinks, but many have yet to be claimed. In the back of the box is a fully stocked bar with stools lining the counter. Several wizards and witches stand there with drinks in their hands, gabbing away like old friends. It’s the first time she’s felt uncomfortable with Harry, surrounded by such high-up officials who’d condemn her career choice if they knew what it was.

“We have a while before the match starts. Would you like a drink?” Harry takes her gently by the elbow and steers her toward the bar before she says yes. Standing there among the other chatting wizards is Cormac McLaggen.

Cormac, with his perfect hair and straight, white, predatory smile. Eyes that say ‘I’m undressing you and you like it.’ She shivers involuntarily and scoots closer to Harry.

“Cormac -- meet Jean.” Harry gestures to her as Cormac extends a hand. “Jean, my partner in the DMLE -- Cormac McLaggen.”

“It’s a pleasure, Jean.” His smile could melt even the iciest of hearts, she thinks. Cormac ducks his head down to her hand and places a chaste kiss upon the back of it. “Takes quite the lady to rope Potter here into more than one date.”

Hermione tries so hard not to roll her eyes and smiles instead. “Well, it takes quite a bloke to rope me into more than one night, too.”

Cormac bursts into laughter. “Better watch this one, mate. She’s fire.”

“Are you here alone?” Hermione asks pleasantly, trying to make conversation but not really caring too much about the answer. She’s too busy watching the crowds gather and chatter. She hasn’t been around this many people in so long. Partying is more Lavender’s thing; Hermione still prefers to curl up with a book than to go out to the pubs.

“My wife is here, speaking to the French Minister -- somewhere.” Cormac glances around and then points to a busty redhead across the box. “Not much of a talker, but you can see why I had to snatch her off the market when I got the chance.”

Hermione, to her credit, simply smiles. Instead of, as she wants to do, stabbing the heel of her shoe right into his precious bits. Harry’s hand encircles her waist and draws her closer. His lips brush the side of her head and she swears she can hear him chuckling softly. It takes the edge off the moment and she allows herself to relax into his side.

Harry places a fruity looking drink in her hand and sips on his own bottle of beer. He introduces her to so many people, men and women alike, with all the charm of a politician. She honestly never thought he’d be so… engaging. But everyone wants a piece of Harry and at some point they’re separated in the growing crowd of the box.

She finds herself in the corner of the room with Draco Malfoy as company. He’s tense with tight, stormy eyes and straight lips. “I’m glad I’m not the only one who feels entirely out of place here.”

He snorts and fidgets with the glass in his hand. “I used to think I’d live for events like this.” Draco’s gaze lazily rolls over the crowd and then finds her face once more. “Now, as much as they don’t want my kind here, I prefer not to be as well. They all…  _ stink _ .”

Hermione can’t help it. She loses a laugh and immediately relaxes against the wall behind her. She’s two drinks in, feeling a slight buzz from the alcohol, and perfectly comfortable watching Harry mingle with high ranking officials from the sidelines. He’s a natural at it and the grin on his face, the dimples on his cheeks, are so genuine that she can’t help but light up inside as she watches him.

“They stink?” Hermione wrinkles her nose and tries to hide it when she sniffs her own blouse for any particular stench. Draco laughs at her and she grimaces. “Do I stink?”

Harry’s gaze finds hers as Cormac whispers in his ear. Cormac stares at her, blue eyes dark as they travel the length of her body. Hermione doesn’t like it; she feels exposed and sinks closer to the wall. Harry tips his beer in her direction and says something back to Cormac before the two are engaged in a heated exchange that she wishes she could hear.

Draco catches her attention again with a pointed sniff in her direction. “No. You aren’t foul-smelling like most of these old buzzards. There’s something… familiar, though. Where did you say you were from?”

“I left England shortly after the war,” she says, suddenly struggling to catch a breath. She has to deflect and so she sips on her drink and promptly changes the subject. “It’ll get better, you know. Once the legislation is rewritten and you’re not as ostracized. They’ll have a chance to see that lycanthropy can be controlled and-- what? Why are you laughing?”

His eyes crinkle in the corners. “It’s just that your scent isn’t the only thing familiar about you and I can see why Potter’s taken a liking to you, is all.”

She swallows thickly. “Why’s that?”

Draco’s hand comes up to her arm and traces a finger down the side of it. Her eyes swing to find Harry and he’s there, a few feet away, gaze lingering on the way Draco is touching her.

“You remind me of his best friend,” Draco says quietly, a slight tilt to his chin. “Hermione Granger. Is that name familiar to you?”

“No.” She lifts her chin, but the skepticism in Draco’s eyes makes her uncomfortable.

“You were in England during the war and never heard of The Golden Girl, Hermione Granger?” He lets loose a breath of a laugh. “I find that incredibly hard to believe. In fact, that scent that you give off -- it’s very similar to--”

“I have to go.” Hermione pushes from the wall and shoves her half-finished drink into Draco’s hand. “I’m sorry. We can catch up another time. I just -- just remembered something important that I need to speak with Harry about. Goodbye.”

She zips through the crowd, but she can’t find Harry anywhere. It’s when she decides to find the loo that she runs into Cormac and feels a sense of relief flood through her. Cormac smiles, but it’s hardly kind. It’s predatory and dark. She flinches away as he towers over her.

“Are you having a good time, then,  _ Jean _ ?” His voice is hoarse and smells like firewhiskey. She nods, unable to form words at the way he says her name… almost as if he’s figured out that she’s not Jean at all. “Good,” he continues, eyes darkening. “Just a thought, love, but maybe when you’re done with Harry, you and I can--”

Without another thought, without so much as a breath in response, Hermione tears herself away from Cormac and dashes out of the box.

Her sole destination: to the hotel to grab her things and disappear.


	6. Chapter 6

She’s packing up her things when she realizes that she’s an idiot. All she had brought was her outfit and an extendable bag. Hermione grabs her dental floss from the bathroom and runs to the door, but it opens before she can grasp the handle.

Harry’s there and he’s nervous. His hand runs through his hair as he backs her into the room and shuts the door behind him.

“What’s wrong?” He reaches for her, but she recoils. His eyes widen only a fraction, but she can see the surprise before he wipes it from his face. “Jean, what happened at the match?”

Like he doesn't know. Hermione scowls, places a hand to her hip, and clicks her tongue. “You told McLaggen what I am! Cormac. Bloody. McLaggen. He never should have known about my profession and you bloody blurted it out like— like you’re giving him permission to—”

“Whoa.” His hands raise to his chest as if to calm her down, but she’s more riled than ever. “Jean, I didn’t—”

“Bollocks! You  _ did _ ,” she shouts and points her finger at him as if to punctuate her accusation. “You did and then he propositioned me for when  _ I’m done with you.” _

Her voice has reached a high pitch. She’s fuming and glances to the door because she’s ready to run through it if only to get away from Harry. Her heart is breaking, positively torn into bits. She’s only Jean to him, a prostitute, something to be passed around to the next bloke. Tears spring to her eyes as Harry takes another step toward her.

“I’m sorry, Jean, I  _ am _ .” His fingers touch her arm and she’s just about to forgive him, but then, almost as an afterthought, he adds, “He shouldn’t have said anything at all to you, and I’m sorry that he did.”

“You shouldn’t have told him in the first place, Harry, blimey!” Hermione whips around because she can’t stand the sight of his apologetic, frowning face. Her fingers grip onto the flesh of her arms so tightly that she leaves white marks on her skin. “Did you tell everyone else, too? Were they all having fun watching the witch-prostitute mingle with the high-ranking Ministry officials like a common  _ whore _ ?”

“No!” He approaches her and turns her gently by the shoulder. She glares at him, resolve like stone because she’s so, so fucking angry. “I didn’t tell anyone else. Cormac, he’s one of my best mates and I didn’t think it would hurt anything to -- I’m sorry that he approached you like that, Jean, I’m sorry.”

Her anger begins to dissipate; those soulful green eyes implore her to forgive him. Her hands drop away from her arms and she sniffs back the tears that never fell from her eyes. “I just… I didn’t like him propositioning me the way he did. As if I would just jump from you to him without any care at all, and -- I know you don’t mean any harm, but I didn’t think you could just toss me aside so easily. That’s my fault.”

“I don’t know why you’re being this way,” he says as the lines of his face twist into a grimace. “You’re an escort. I’m sure you’re used to these propositions.”

It’s like a slap to the face and the force of it knocks the breath from her lungs. The incredible pain that overtakes her brings the fury of a blush to her cheeks. She huffs and balls her hands into tiny fists. She can’t believe that  _ this _ is the Harry Potter she’s been pining for since fourth year. That this man, so careless with his words, is the same charming boy that she’d fallen in love with over researching through the stacks in the library. How easily he could break her heart in half should be a crime.

She takes a deep breath, rolls her tongue over her teeth, and looks him dead in the eye. “I’m sorry I ever met you.”

“As if you had so many options.” It’s cheeky, not cruel, but it still stings. “I saw you on that street, looking for your next wealthy businessman. I haven’t held you hostage. You’ve  _ liked _ it here with me.”

“I’ve never had someone make me feel as cheap as you did today.” Her eyes water, this time the tears fall down her cheeks freely.

“Somehow I find that very hard to believe.” His arms cross. Glasses slide down to the tip of his nose as he surveys her with those stupid, intoxicating green eyes. No; she can’t get sucked into them, into him. She has to leave. And he adds, as if he’s read her mind: “So, you’re leaving.”

“I was just grabbing my things,” she informs him tersely and then shoulders past him toward the door.

“Don’t forget this,” he says, and shoves a wad of notes into her hand.

Hermione stares at the money and swipes the wetness away from her cheeks. She glances up to Harry and then drops the cash onto the floor. As it floats down and creates a mess, she leaves. Her feet can’t carry her fast enough to the lift. She’s going to lose it and dissolve into a fit of tears because this magical week has just taken the worst turn. Her heart is heavy and so are her feet as she stops in front of the lift and pushes the down arrow.

Her foot taps as she waits. Nerves on fire, stomach roiling, and hands shaking, she tries like hell to clear her thoughts. Every thought goes back to Harry. To nearly kissing him. To his hands that held her body so tight against his. To his breath in her ear when he told her how good she felt around him. All of the things she’d dreamed about for so long… ruined.

A  _ ding _ pulls her out of her spiraling thoughts. The doors to the lift open and she steps inside as quickly as possible. Her finger hits the button for the lobby and just as the doors begin to close, Harry stands there. He puts his hand between the doors to stop them from closing.

They stare at one another. Several beats of silence between them. She’s sure he can hear the thudding of her heart. The doors start to close again, but he steps between them and closer to her.

“I’m sorry.” His voice shakes as he stuffs his hands into his pockets. “I’m so, so sorry.” The door tries to close again, but his body stops it. There’s a buzzing sound that fills the lift. “Please stay.”

Her eyes snap to his from the floor. “Harry--”

“I’m an idiot.” She lifts her chin a millimeter but doesn’t argue with him. “I was jealous. I was a jealous idiot.”

She raises a prim eyebrow. “Go on, then. Explain.”

Harry runs a hand through his hair, mussing it up worse than it was from the raging breeze at the Quidditch match. “I saw you talking to Malfoy.” The name drips from his lips with disgust and she narrows her eyes at him -- jealous? Of Malfoy? “I saw the way he touched you and I just -- I lost my mind. And I took it out on you just then and it wasn’t fair. I’ve acted stupidly.”

“Yes, you have.” She pushes past him into the corridor and stalks off toward the penthouse. Her arms cross over her chest and she glances back to see him following after her. “There’s positively no reason to be jealous of Draco Malfoy of all people. And what you did was very wrong.”

“I know. I’m a blithering idiot when I’m jealous.” He laughs nervously and jogs ahead of her to open the door for her. Hermione pins him with a look before crossing back into the room. Cash still litters the carpet. “I shouldn’t have said anything to Cormac. I’ll make sure to threaten him into silence. He knows from experience that I’ll make good on the threat.”

She can’t help the snort that’s drawn out of her. Despite her red eyes and puffy cheeks, she feels lighter already. And she’s not ready to let him entirely off the hook, but he  _ did _ chase after her and he did make one hell of an apology. She can’t remember the last time that someone who wasn’t Lavender apologized for the way they’ve treated her.

“So, you’ll stay?” The hope laced in his tone finally relaxes her tension. She puts a smile on her face and nods. “Good.”

And then he’s pressing her against the wall and pins her with his hips. His hands rest on either side of her head and he’s so, so close to her lips. Hermione turns her head away and revels in the disgruntled way he growls. Harry dips to her neck instead and leaves a possessive bruise while she moans under his tongue.

Hermione’s hands trail down the length of his torso until they meet his belt. She unbuckles it and swipes it from its loops in one fluid motion before dropping it to the floor. In a graceful movement, she’s on her knees and dragging his trousers down to the ground with her. His hardness is staring her right in the face and she wastes no time enveloping it in her mouth. There’s a certain amount of pleasure derived from the way his hands fist against the door and knock against it when she shows him just how skilled she is with her mouth.

The thought of kissing him now, after their fight, made her feel cheap. But here, on her knees, where he’s at her mercy -- this is where she feels powerful. And so she works hard to bring him to climax and smiles when he pulls her back up the length of his body and calls her a “brilliant, marvelous, spectacular witch.”

She laughs, but he’s not done with her yet. Harry lifts her easily in his arms and takes her into the bedroom where he makes sure that she knows he’s equally skilled with his mouth.

Hours later, with their fight behind them, Hermione lays with her head on his chest and her fingers drawing abstract patterns against his skin. Harry smooths her hair, brushes it with his fingers, and then follows the trail of her spine down to her tailbone.

“I’m glad you’ve decided to stay,” he whispers against the top of her head. His lips press firmly into her hair and she smiles against his chest. “And that you’ve decided to forgive me.”

“I’m a little sensitive about what I do for a living,” she admits as her finger circles his belly button and then teases the hair that trails down further. “Cormac approaching me as he did was just -- if you knew what women on the streets have to deal with, you’d understand why I reacted as I did.”

He’s quiet for a long moment. “How did you end up doing… what you do?”

Hermione’s fingers stop moving and she takes a steadying breath. She watches the scant hairs on his chest blow under the gust of her exhale. “You already know that I left England after the war.”

“Mm.” His hands continue their delicate trek up and down her spine and she scoots in closer to him.

“My parents died toward the end.” She tries so hard not to cry, but her warm tears slide onto his chest anyway. His hand clenches around her hip, drawing her closer still. She can feel his apology hanging between them; it’s such a Harry move. “They’re Muggles, you see. And they were in the wrong place at the wrong time. And the thing is…” Her throat is raw and her eyes sting. “They had no idea  _ why _ they were being attacked. Death Eaters showed up on their doorstep and just…”

“Jean--” His voice is hoarse, pained, and his grip is so tight she thinks she might have bruises. But she doesn’t care as her mother’s name rolls off his lips. She cries in earnest.

“It was bloody.” Her voice is so thick that she’s not sure he can make out the words. “They didn’t just use The Killing Curse. They -- they --”

“Hey, hey, breathe.” he’s stroking her skin again and he’s murmuring calming words into her hair as she cries and cries. “I shouldn’t have asked. I’m sorry.”

It takes her ages to gain her bearings again. Her fingers begin stroking his taut stomach again and she focuses on the way his breathing clenches and releases his muscles.

“An acquaintance of mine from school found me in the Ministry during the Death Eater trials. I was there for the murder of my parents.” She’s trying to be as vague as possible. Harry knows so little of what she’d done during the war outside of their missing with the horcruxes; she wonders if she’s saying too much. But it feels good to tell  _ someone _ what happened to Hermione Granger after the war. She’s been someone else for so long now.

“She told me that there was a movement in France, where witches and wizards were taking to the streets and earning so much money doing it.” Hermione couldn’t help the laugh that escapes her; Lavender had made it sound like a business venture. In fact, it turned out to be an escort service. She’ll never forget her immediate dismissal of it at first. “Homeless, parentless, and with no savings, it just sort of… felt right. And then I started seeing the conditions of these people I’d come to know as friends. It was terrible.”

It’s a passion of hers now. It hadn’t been at first. She remembers the fights with Lavender, with another wizard who worked on the street, with a witch who was part of an unofficial escort service. There was so much infighting amongst them all. Hermione finally got that to stop. And now, well… Lavender depends on her.

“So I promised them that I’d figure out a way to make it better. I didn’t lie before when I told you that I want to run an escort business. I’d like to make sure that anyone selling their body for money is safe -- from threat, harm, and disease.”

“That’s awfully noble of you,” Harry says finally and she can hear the smile in his voice. “Did you go to Hogwarts? I think you’d make an excellent Gryffindor.”

“I don’t know about that,” she laughs. “I ran away from every problem that I had. And when I decided to go ahead with the escort profession, I cried the first time. The entire time.”

“Running doesn’t mean you’re not a Gryffindor,” Harry says quickly, pride lacing his tone. “Sometimes that’s the bravest thing we can do. My best friend ran away after the war.” His fingers run through her hair and he tugs on it so that her chin raises and her eyes meet his. “And she’s the bravest person I’ve ever known.”


	7. Chapter 7

Harry shuffles the stacks of paperwork in front of him and stuffs it carelessly into a folder. The last thing he had wanted to do was leave Jean for too long and this Ministry meeting has already overrun by an hour. 

Jean. 

Harry’s heart races. 

But, she’s not Jean at all, is she?

It had hit him like a bludger when he realized that his missing friend was also his week-long companion. And, like a coward, Harry woke before she did and rushed from the penthouse to the Ministry. Like he always does, he buried himself in work.

He needs time to sort out his thoughts. He shouldn’t have left. In fact, he should have stayed and told her that he knows her secret, knows that under that fake blonde hair is unruly waves and untamable curls. But there has to be a reason she doesn’t tell him. If Harry tells her that he knows who she is, will she run away? Will he never hear from her again? The thought makes him sick.

He’s loved Hermione Granger since his first year at Hogwarts. What started as a platonic sort of love evolved into something so powerful, he was able to defeat the darkest wizard of all time just to keep her safe. And now… now she’s a prostitute in wizarding France, and he can’t help but feel that it’s his fault. If he’d reached out, if he’d been there that day in the Ministry when Macnair had his trial, if he’d gotten to her before someone had dragged her here and made her do… this. He feels nauseated and unrelenting sadness.

“Oi, mate, you there?” Cormac’s fingers snap in front of his face and Harry shakes his head and the overwhelming thoughts away. “We’re hitting the city. You in?”

If he were as much of a coward as he feels, Harry would go with Cormac. But, as it is, he knows that this is his only chance to have Hermione back in his life. He forces a tight smile. “Nah, sorry. Have a date tonight.”

“With that whore?” Cormac’s grin is feral, but it’s Harry that growls angrily in response.

His sharp eyes pin Cormac to the spot. “Careful what you say about her, mate.”

He laughs and raises an eyebrow. “What, are you in love with your  _ escort _ ? You do know that when you pay them, they’re meant to make you feel special.”

“Enjoy your night. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He dips his chin, grabs his folder, and pockets his wand as Cormac’s eyes follow him around the room. 

Harry doesn’t waste any time skirting around Cormac and zipping through the Ministry to the Floo. He waves, nods, and offers brief smiles to various wizards and witches on his way through the maze of corridors, but he doesn’t stop until he’s calling out the hotel name in the Floo grate.

When he enters the room, Hermione’s voice calls out to him.

“Don’t come back here!” She sounds harried and breathless. Of course, it makes him want to dash to her immediately. Auror instincts on overdrive. “Give me just -- just a minute!”

He fidgets until he hears the creak of a door from deep within the penthouse. Harry shoves his hands into his pockets and rolls his neck until it pops. His eyes stare unblinkingly at the space where the bedroom meets the living space, waiting and waiting until she finally enters the room with a nervous smile on her face.

He’s speechless and breathless and Merlin, his heart is in his throat. Gobsmacked.

She steps closer to him and her hips sway. A floor-length, red dress hugs every curve. The creamy skin of her chest is exposed tastefully and she has elbow-length white gloves covering her hands and forearms. In her hand, she holds a short necklace made of pearls and she offers them to Harry silently as she turns.

His mouth is dry, scorching like a desert as Harry steps closer to her. The red material of her dress parts at her shoulders and meets again at her tailbone. There’s a slit up the side of her leg all the way to the top of her thigh. And the shoes, open-toed, spiked-heeled, and strappy. As if she’d transfigured those black shoes he loves so much.

He swallows and it’s like glass sliding down his throat as he takes the pearls gently from her hand. There’s a distinct urge to have her right here, on the desk or on the dining table or on the floor -- hell, he’s not picky. He’s standing erect behind her and as Harry wraps the pearls around her slender throat, he’s sure that she can feel him pressed against her bum. Ready to have her if she’ll allow him.

The clasp of the necklace is secured with only a small amount of fiddling. Harry presses his lips to the side of her neck, wishing she’d let him claim her mouth and taste her kiss.

“You’re gorgeous,” he whispers and it earns him a massive grin. “We don’t have to go out tonight, if you’d rather stay in.”

She chuckles softly and turns to face him. “And waste this dress and these pearls? I don’t think so.”

Any thought of telling her that he knows she’s actually Hermione Granger are out the window. He promises himself that after tonight, after their date, he’ll do it. But, she’s right. Waste this dress and these pearls? No sodding way.

* * *

Her eyes light up when they arrive to Palais Garnier. A hulking, old building made of marble and stone, so tall that they couldn’t see the end of it without craning their necks. Hermione walks along the path in front of the opera house and she runs her fingers along the stone under different composers’ busts that are depicted. She’s silent as she takes in the grandeur of the architecture.

Harry cups her elbow and steers her inside. He’s buzzing with excitement because if she thinks the  _ outside _ is beautiful-- 

A gasp leaves her and he pauses in his step as she covers her dark red lips with her white gloved hand. Her eyes dance around the space and he swears he can see tears collecting at the corners of her eyes. Something bursts to life inside of him and he’s not sure what it is or why it’s roaring like a beast in his chest.

The Palais Garnier is, in a word, stunning. It’s only the third time Harry has been here, but it never ceases to leave him speechless. It’s rich, gold and bright, as it welcomes its patrons in a warm Parisian way. Hermione tugs on his arm, seeking his attention, and Harry glances up to follow her gaze. Above them and the grand staircase ahead, are beautiful paintings depicting various operatic muses of the time. She snuggles in close to him and he can’t stop the smile that graces his face as he glances back to her. Watching the wonder on her face is one of the highlights of his entire trip to Paris. Knowing that he’s brought her even the smallest bit of joy -- it means everything to him.

They’re escorted to their seats, high above the floor and on a private balcony. The beauty of the room doesn’t compare to the stunner sitting beside him, though. While she’s marveling at the auditorium, Harry’s marveling at her.

The room quiets and Hermione turns her sparkling gaze to him. The wide smile on her face strokes his heart. “What are we seeing?”

“Les Indes galates,” he whispers and searches his pockets for a pair of ornate, golden binoculars for her to use. “It’s several love stories told through exotic places.”

“My parents were going to bring me to Palais Garnier on my eighteenth birthday.” The rawness in her voice doesn’t escape his notice. He wraps his hand around hers and squeezes gently. “Thank you for this.”

Harry brings her hand to his lips and places a kiss there as the opera begins. They sit in absolute silence as the stories unfold before them. Even at the intermission, they don’t move and instead speak of the story unfolding before them. He never knew that she loved opera, never thought to ask. Though, it’s a new interest for him since working for the international auror group. He’s never enjoyed it quite as much as he does now, either.

As the opera comes to a close, Harry isn’t even watching the dancers on stage. No, he’s enraptured with the emotion that flicks across Hermione’s face. There’s an innate sadness there behind her eyes that he hadn’t noticed before. It doesn’t move; not when the lovers unite, not when love conquers all, not when the music is uplifting and exotic. She’s sad and he hadn’t realized it, not to this magnitude, until now.

He understands now why she’s kept her identity a secret. She’s not the Hermione Granger that he knew years ago. This person, Jean, is someone else entirely. And for a split second, while tears slide down her painted cheeks, Harry wonders if he’ll ever know her as Hermione Granger ever again.

* * *

Paris is breezy on this summer afternoon. Harry has Theo gather a picnic for him and Jean to take to le Jardin des Tuileries. She’s dressed in tight denims and a flowery, pink top and he matches her casual style with his own loose jeans and a white tee. Today, he’s not Harry Potter, International Auror. Today he’s just Harry.

“It’s beautiful here,” Hermione tells him as they walk through the gate to the garden. “I can’t believe I’ve never been here.”

“For someone who’s lived in Paris for so long, you’ve done very little to enjoy the city,” he teases her. Harry guides her past the statues of the winged horses and further into the park that’s encircled by statues of various mythological figures. “I’m glad I get to enjoy it with you.”

Every time she smiles, he feels victory swoop through him.

He walks her around the garden, the fountain, and the various statues, before he points out a space near a tall tree that will provide them shade from the sun. They settle into the plush grass and Harry sets the wicker picnic basket between them. It’s filled with bread, cheese, meat, and fruit. A bottle of champagne that’s magically chilled somehow fits inside, as well as two crystal flutes.

He pours them each a drink while Hermione constructs sandwiches. As they exchange food and drink, she settles into his side and they watch Paris life scuttle by.

* * *

Later that evening, Harry drags Hermione to a little dive bar that he frequented on his own in Paris every time he travels here. La Cordonnerie, a small venue with a simple terrace on the pavement outside. From inside, the soft beat of reggae music thumps. Harry orders a pint and when he makes to order something fruity for Hermione, she scoffs and demands a pint as well.

“Sorry,” Harry smiles at her sheepishly and sips from his glass. “I wanted to bring you here because it’s my favorite spot in Paris. After a long day liaising with the Ministry, I love the laughter and easy friendships this pub offers.”

“You’re surprising me with all these places,” she tells him and then, to his surprise, Hermione slams the pint back quickly and drops the glass onto the table top. “We always see the Louvre and the Arc de Triomphe, but these little, local places are brilliant.”

“I like sharing this with you.” He follows her lead and gulps back his pint. Harry eyes her carefully, thinking about what he wants to say next. How is he going to tell her that he knows who she is? Should he? He’s been enjoying himself with her all day and he doesn’t want to spoil the mood. Instead, he settles on: “I feel like I’ve known you my whole life, actually. A best mate.”

“We both know I’m more than that now, Harry.”

The smile she tosses at Harry completely disarms him. Warmth floods him, sets his nerves alight and rocks his soul. He reaches his hand across the table and covers hers. “You are,” he tells her earnestly. “Far more than that now.”

He loves the blush that dusts her cheeks. His only wish now is for her to remove the glamour so that he can sink his hands into her riotous curls and claim her as Hermione Granger.

* * *

He’s feeling fuzzy and delightfully disoriented as they walk from La Cordonnerie back to their hotel room. She cozies up to him through the walk and rests her head against his arm as he leads her through Paris. Harry points out random facts about the city, the lights, the architecture, and little magical pockets that are secretly nestled amongst the Muggle villages.

“I wish I could stay here,” he admits to Hermione quietly as they approach the hotel.

Hermione pauses in her step and slowly brings her eyes to his. “Me too.”

He swallows and ducks his head down, hovering his lips just over hers. Hermione turns her cheek. His breath fans her face and he lets a chuckle loose. “Can’t blame a bloke for trying.”

She laughs lightly and tugs him into the hotel where they walk lazily to the lift and finally to their room. Both are looser from the alcohol and lighter with each others’ company, or so Harry likes to think as he presses her against various walls in the hotel and kisses the parts of her that she’ll allow.

* * *

Harry is just starting to doze off when he feels the mattress dip at his side. He knows she’s staring down at him, something of a sixth sense he’s picked up being an auror. Her fingers lightly trace the lightning bolt shaped scar on his forehead. Then down to the notch between his eyebrows, the planes of his angular cheeks, his lips.

He doesn’t dare open his eyes.

Her finger trails along the plump flesh of his bottom lip, and then the corners where his smile had rested all day, and finally along the slight bow of his upper lip.

Her breath is an earthy fragrance from the beer they’d drank hours before. It blows against his cheek. She’s so close, all he has to do is turn his head to the side and he can capture her lips. Finally.

But he needn’t do that at all.

The softest pressure touches his lips. Her silky, red lips caress his for only the briefest of moments, and then they’re gone.

His eyes spring open and he’s caught in her intense brown stare. They share a breath.

And then his hands are wrapped in her blonde hair and his lips devour hers like he’s a man starved. He traces the seam of her lips with his tongue and she moans into his mouth. He swallows every noise, every gasp, greedily as he pushes her back and down into the mattress. Harry’s body pins her to the bed and her back arches underneath him.

When he sheaths himself inside of her, makes desperate, slow love to her, it takes all of his strength not to call out her real name.


	8. Chapter 8

She awakes slowly with Harry’s hand caressing her side. It’s so comforting that she has to fight not falling back to sleep again.

“Do you have to go?” she asks him sleepily as she turns her chin over her shoulder to look at him.

He’s so adorable, frumpy in his sleep with bedhead and heavy-lidded eyes. His hands dip onto her abdomen and pull her closer to him. He groans into her hair. “I really wish I didn’t. Rather stay in bed with you all day.”

Hermione places her leg over his and then encourages his hand further down. Enticing him to stay here with her in bed. As his fingers slide against her heat, his breath speeds up and he presses his lips to hers. The awkward angle doesn’t bother her, indeed it only increases her urgency as she slides her tongue against his and uses her body to beg him to stay with her.

He arranges her body so that he can enter her from behind. Slight thrusts and his fingers matching his speed have her careening over the edge of orgasm and panting his name breathlessly. When he stills inside of her and his taut muscles finally relax, a warm and satisfied smile overtakes her lips.

Hermione watches from the bed as he fumbles around the room for his clothes. He’s unashamed of his body and she’s happy to enjoy the view as he tugs his trousers and shirt on. There’s nothing to be done with his hair as his hands card through it several times in an attempt to tame it. She smiles as she sits up, but there’s something on his face that gives her pause.

His teeth cut into his lip. “I’m leaving for London this evening.”

“I know,” she whispers and tightens the sheet around her body. “I was hoping maybe I could talk you into staying one more night.”

“Or,” he moves closer, hand palming her cheek softly. “You come to London with me.”

“And what’s next?” Suddenly, she’s filled with a ghastly sadness. Her words are clipped, laced with unimaginable melancholy. “You leave money on the bedside for me?”

“No, come live in London with me.” Harry tucks a stray chunk of hair behind her ear and the grin on his face is out of place. How can he look so damn happy when she feels like her world is collapsing? She lifts an eyebrow at him and jerks her face away from his fingers. “It will get you off the streets.”

She rolls her eyes. “Well, that’s just geography.”

“Jean.” The way he says her name, rough and quick, knots her stomach. “What is it that you want?”

“I don’t know!” She stands from the bed and the sheet drops to the floor. “What is it that you want?”

He crowds her in an instant. Hands on her hips, eyes intense and imploring as they dip to her lips and then snap back to hers. “I always imagined that I’d have my best friend by my side forever.” Harry’s thumbs rub tight circles on her naked hips. “That’s what I want. A best friend,  _ my _ best friend.”

Her lower lip trembles. She’s flooded with the need to run. Does he know that he has his best friend now? Here? Begging him to spend just one more night with her before they’re separated forever. Because, no matter how much she loves Harry, she cannot and will not return to England. There’s too much pain, too much heartache there.

“I can’t do that, Harry,” she whispers and he lowers his lips to hers, but she turns her cheek. “I’m sorry.”

“Harry!” There’s someone shouting from the next room. It’s a happy sound, a laugh nipping at the end of every word. “Harry! We got the deal, we got the Legislation to pass!”

“Cormac,” Harry groans, fingers dig into her skin for a moment before he backs away and calls back to Cormac. “I’ll be down to sign in a mo’. Stall them for me.” His eyes are hard on hers, wide, hopeful. “I have to go.  _ Have _ to. I’ll be back soon. Don’t leave.”

He’s away from her and rushing toward the Floo before she can agree. She hears him holler back, “Please don’t leave until I get back!”

And then the woosh of the Floo fills the penthouse. The green embers die as Hermione walks into the living area, naked and alone. She sighs. One last evening with Harry before he goes back to London, that’s all she has.

She promises herself then and there that she won’t spoil it by begging him to stay. She won’t touch on what they’ll do after tonight. Hermoine is going to enjoy the time she has left, no matter how much it kills her later.

* * *

Harry’s been gone for quite a while, but it’s given Hermione a chance to get herself put together for one final meal before he leaves. She’s wearing the strappy black heels that he likes so much and a white dress with a large, navy polk-a-dot pattern that hits her mid-thigh.

The doorbell sounds and she thinks that maybe Harry’s decided to play a joke. She swings the door open with a semi-forced, wide smile on her face that falters quickly. On the other side of the door is not Harry. It’s Cormac with a cocky smile and gleaming, blue eyes that dart behind her and around her.

“Harry’s not here, then?” He asks as he shoulders himself into the penthouse, leaving Hermione to close the door in his wake.

“No,” she says as she storms up behind him with her hands on her hips. “I thought he’d be with you until he comes home from the Ministry.”

“Home.” Cormac snorts and turns around so that he’s facing her. A wicked grin climbs his face, pushing dimples into his cheeks. “Home is in London, love. Where you should be, don’t you think?”

Her mouth hangs open and it takes her a beat to kick start her brain. “What do you mean? Did Harry tell you about our conversation this morning? Because he shouldn’t have and it’s none of your business--”

His hand shoots out and encircles her waist. Instead of pulling her close, he steps forward to her. “Relax, will you? I completely understand why you won’t go to England. If I lost my entire family--”

Hermione recoils, her feet tripping over one another to get away from him. It’s a slap in the face and she’s not sure what to say. Does he know who she is? How did he figure it out? Did Harry tell him? Her stomach roils at the thought of Cormac knowing who she is.

“You know, Harry spends an awful lot of time here with you,” he ventures casually as he seeks out the mini-bar and makes himself a drink. “He’s left a lot of the legwork for this Werewolf Legislation to me. I’ve been wondering what it is about you.”

He turns again and faces her. He’s got a dark brown beverage in a small tumbler, finger pointing at her as he sips from it. “He’s kept you comfortable here, hasn’t he? You’ve wanted for nothing. And the sex.” Cormac flashes her a wolfish grin and clicks his tongue. “From what I understand, Harry’s getting what’s paid for. Better be, considering he’s hemorrhaging money for you.”

Cormac is close to her again. Her heart hammers in her chest. He’s got a predatory gleam in his eye and she’s pinned to the spot under the weight of it. “Cormac, I think you should leave.”

She’s wildly uncomfortable the longer he stares at her without speaking. He finishes off his drink and sets the glass down. “Since your week with Harry is done, how about you let me stay with you tonight?”

Hermione shakes her head, hands quaking as he advances on her. “No, I’d like you to leave now.”

His hands find her hips and Cormac yanks her close. She turns her cheek as his lips descend to hers. Acid rises in her throat as his fingers tighten against her flesh. “I’m not leaving until I get a piece of this sweet arse Harry’s been pining over all week.”

“I. Said. No.” Hermione runs on instinct alone as her leg comes up and she knees Cormac straight in the testicles. He keels over, groaning and holding onto his bits. That’s when she sees Harry standing in the room, face flushed and eyes flashing in anger.

He storms further into the room, pulls Cormac up by the lapels of his robes, and punches him across the cheek. Dragging him from the room, Harry slams the door after tossing Cormac into the hallway and then rushes over to Hermione.

Cormac’s fist pounds into the door and the last thing they hear from him is a muffled, “Hermione’s a goddamn  _ whore _ !”

His footsteps echo down the corridor as Harry’s hand cups her face. “Are you okay?”

She’s acutely aware that Cormac called her Hermione. That means that Harry knows who she is. She feels faint as she searches his eyes. Is he angry? Disappointed? She tries to smile, tries to force it, but all she can manage is a straight line.

“I’m fine.” She’s lightheaded as his thumb caresses her cheek. “It’s not the first time that’s happened and it won’t be the last.”

“I--” he falters and she watches the planes of his neck constrict under a tight swallow. She knows that he knows. He knows that she knows that he knows. The weight of it suffocates both of them. “I never should have told him anything.”

“No,” she agrees on a sigh. “But, what’s done is done. I- I think I should go now.”

“Don’t.” He holds onto, steps with her so that she can’t skirt around him. “Stay with me.”

She won’t cry. She  _ won’t _ . Hermione takes the hand he has pressed to her face and curls her hand around it, slowly removing it. She immediately misses the warmth of it.

“Harry.” It takes all of her willpower not to cry. She swallows and steals a deep breath. “I have to go. I’ve enjoyed this week. It’s been the best week of my life. But -- there’s so much that I have to do here. The real world won’t stop just for us.”

Hermione drops his hand. She closes her eyes and she moves around him. Her hand rests on the door handle when she hears him. Rushed. Sad.

“Wait, before you go.” His eyes are locked on hers. There’s so much to say, but it fades away under the uncertainty between them. “Your money.” Harry pulls several notes from his wallet and closes her hand around them. “If you ever need  _ anything _ \-- dental floss included -- you know how to reach me, yeah?”

Hermoine can’t speak. If she opens her mouth, she’s going to ask him to stay again. She’s going to beg him to remain in Paris until she’s strong enough to let him go. So, she forces a smile as best as she can and turns the knob of the door and pulls it open. Just as her foot crosses the threshold, she hears his whisper.

“Stay with me.” Harry’s hand is on her shoulder. He’s pressed so close to her back that she can feel his breath on the back of her neck. “Stay the night with me.” Her eyes fill with tears at the sound of his desperation. She cuts her teeth into her bottom lip and clenches her fist around the doorknob. “Not because I’m paying you, but because you want to.”

Silence. Filled only with the fluttering of her breaking heart.

Her hand drops from the handle. She steps once and away from his touch. Looking back to him will be too painful, so she raises her chin and takes a desperate breath.

“I can’t, Harry. I’m sorry.”

She leaves, one wobbly foot after the other, without looking back. She doesn’t want him to see her fall apart.


	9. Chapter 9

Being a wizard has never been so good. Harry packed his entire penthouse with a flick of his wand. The only thing that gave him pause before leaving was Hermione. The way she left. It would haunt him for the rest of his life. He’d hoped that asking her to stay would stop her. Instead, it broke his heart and ground it into dust.

Now, he stands in the French Ministry. Handshake after handshake and congratulations spouted everywhere he turns. He forces a smile and tries to pretend that he’s happy with his work this week. The Werewolf Legislation, affectionately called The Hermione Granger Humanitarian Bill, passed and the world is one step closer to being right.

They try to drag him out for celebratory drinks, but he can’t make himself go. Instead, he waits for the next International Portkey, chatting to the representatives of the Shanghai Delegation as the crowd thins.

* * *

On the other side of town, Hermione is hugging Lavender tight around the neck.

She’s packed the contents of her small flat into an extendable-charmed bag. She’s leaving Paris. Now that Harry and Cormac know where she’s at, there’s nothing to stop either of them for coming back for her. And, as much as she loves Harry, as much as it pains her to stay away, she knows that if she breaks down and follows him back to England, she’ll regret it. Resenting Harry is not how she wants their story to end.

She’s heading to America. A new identity is waiting. Lavender is teary eyed as she lists the various things that Hermione could forget. Hermione promises to send Lavender her address, just in case she forgets something, or if Lavender ever needs a place to go, she can find her easily.

“I’ll never, ever forget what you’ve done for me,” she whispers to Lavender, sniffling when she finally pulls away from their hug. “Thank you for everything and take care of yourself.”

“I love you,” Lavender says, wiping tears away from Hermione’s eyes. “Don’t worry about me. I survive, remember.”

Hermione snorts a soft laugh and nods. “I’ll be settled in soon, I promise. And then I want you to visit, alright?”

Lavender smiles. “No more escort services?”

“No,” Hermione admits quietly. No, she can’t ever do that again. Not after Harry; it won’t feel right. “I’ll find work in a cafe or a bookshop. And the money from Harry will pay for a flat. Are you sure you don’t want to come with me?”

“Nah. Paris is home.” Lavender wraps her in another strangling hug. “But I’ll visit -- have you ever seen the blokes on the beaches in America?”

She fans herself with a brilliant smile, one that she’s only ever seen on Lavender’s face. It’s warm and cheerful and will be missed so much. Hermione rolls her eyes playfully and extracts herself from Lavender’s arms.

“Bye, Lav.”

And then she’s gone, headed to the Ministry to take an International Portkey to America.

* * *

The Shanghai Delegation’s Portkey glows a bright blue and when they leave, it’s Harry all alone in the Portkey room. There are so many random things on pedestals; old boots, bottle caps, a rubber duck. He smiles at the duck, mind venturing to a conversation that he had a long time ago with Arthur Weasley. As mystified as Harry had been about magic all those years ago, Arthur was equally mystified by Muggles.

He misses the innocent wonder that he used to have about magic. Most of all, he misses the time when his life wasn’t a constant worry over whether he’d survive. He misses his friends, but most of all, he misses Hermione more than anything.

How could he possibly have left her? He watched her walk away and… didn’t go after her. What kind of friend is he, to have let her go back to the life she’s living without trying to save her from it? He should bring her home, or take her somewhere else. Far, far away where they can both heal together.

Yes. That’s what he’ll do. He’ll find her and they’ll figure it out. Whether it’s here in Paris or somewhere else, he’s going to be with Hermione Granger. And she can fight him as much as she wants to; this time he’s going to be there for her.

Harry’s face scrunches up with resolve and he walks to the door.

* * *

The door to the International Portkey room opens and he’s there.

Eyes wide behind round-framed glasses. Jaw slack. Hand raised mid-waist as if to grab the handle of the door.

Time stops.

She can’t breathe.

“Hermione.”

She’s not wearing her glamour. Her hand goes to her hair and she pats it as if that will change it from mousy brown and unruly curls to sleek and blonde again. It doesn’t.

The room glows blue. Her eyes dart to a small rubber duck on a pedestal. 

Her Portkey.

She steps around Harry and into the room. Heart pounding so loud that she’s sure he can hear it echoing off the walls.

“Don’t go.”

  
He’s at her back, hand on her waist. They don’t move. Lungs contract painfully as she releases a heavy breath.

“Harry,” she pleads with him, his name rolling off her tongue in a long, tired wave.

Both hands on her hips. His nose against the side of her head. Nuzzling. Holding tight.

“Don’t go, Hermione.”

She turns, breaking his hold and destroying the intimate moment he’d created. “What would you have me do, Harry? I can’t stay in Paris. I won’t go to London.”

He blinks. His earnest green eyes open as if seeing her for the first time. A small smile lifts the corner of his lips. “Let me come with you then.”

The room sways around her. Her hand lands on his forearm. Desperate. Hopeful. “You would do that? Leave London? The Aurors?”

“I prefer to think of it as rescuing a damsel in distress.” A cheeky grin. Fingers on her cheek. Soft, loving caresses. 

Her stomach rolls. Can she have this? Can she stay away from Britain and also have Harry in her life? 

A disbelieving laugh, breathy and light, leaves her. “I’m hardly a damsel, Harry.”

“Fine then.” He’s closer now. Toe to toe and only slightly taller than she is. His lips part and he’s staring down at her so intensely that the rest of the room fades away. “A  _ lady _ .”

A buzz fills the room. The Portkey flashes bright. There’s only a moment, a scant amount of time to decide. She stares at him, then back to the Portkey, and to him once more. Her chin ducks, her lips parting on a smile.

“Yes.” A single breath. “Come with me, Harry.”

Harry grins and traces a finger down her jaw and lifts her chin. Just before he places a chaste kiss to her lips, he mutters a relieved, “Thank Merlin.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to take a moment and thank everyone who has read through this fic. Whether you read, leave kudos, comment -- I appreciate all of it. <3
> 
> I owe so much of it to my wonderful alpha, mcal, who breathed life into this story every step of the way. You're such an amazing friend and supporter. Thank yo so much for all you do.


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